


Silver on our hair

by rosieposie77



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fear of Death, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Present Tense, Retirementlock, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sussex, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:39:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosieposie77/pseuds/rosieposie77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John at Sherlock's house in Sussex, trying to giving answers to love and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver on our hair

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Il grigio sui nostri capelli](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/31627) by rosieposie77. 
  * A translation of [Il grigio sui nostri capelli](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/31627) by rosieposie77. 



**_01\. Nightmare_ **

 

Sherlock had a dream tonight. Ironic, because he does not ever dream, he barely sleeps. It was not a nice dream, one of those that leaves you a nice feeling when you wake up, like a caress on your skin.

No, it was quite a nightmare. He cannot remember it, this morning, because his Mental Palace, now awaiting restoration, evicted every shred of memory, as useless. The strong sense of loss and abandonment that has left in his bones, however, is palpable.

The former detective reaches out to the left. The other half of the bed is empty. Empty, but still warm. His lips let go a little smile, before kicking off the sheet and sitting up in bed.

The partially open window lets the echo of waves, crashing against the rocks, peep in the room, still immersed in the twilight.

He desperately needs to feel the reassuring John’s voice and to squeeze his strong hand in his.

He needs John. He needs to feel his breath against his skin.

 

 

**_02\. Fallen_ **

 

"Did you love her?"

The good and dear old doctor has his hands wrapped around the steaming cup of tea. He trembles slightly. He does his best to hide it, but Sherlock can see everything, even what he should not. He’s just not sure if the tremor is due to the years passing by, or the question that has just slipped out of his thin and chapped lips.

His lips ...

_John’s lips_...

His lips have not changed through all these years. Sherlock thinks they are as beautiful as the first day.

"And you? Did you love _her?"_

A question for another question, typical of Sherlock. The good doctor shrugs. "It is considered impolite to answer a question with another question, you know, do you?"

It is not a reproach, as the note of joy in his voice betrays him.

"Good education is rather overrated" the former detective mutters. "But you have not answered my question ..."

From the sea, a light afternoon breeze rises, which gives a chill to the lean and emaciated body of the former detective.

"Maybe there was a time when I thought of it," he whispers, staring towards the rocks. "And millions of times when I was sure I did not."

John follows his gaze and thinks that there’s nothing he would want most in the world, apart from following those eyes everywhere, looking at the world _through_ them.

"And you? You spent a _life_ together with _her_..." Suddenly, the rocks are not as interesting as before, and Sherlock just turns his eyes to John, leaning on the railing of the porch.

"Maybe I loved her, but in all the lives that I have lived, the one that I spent with her was _not_ the most important one."

If John would turn around now, he would notice the smug smile that softens the lips of his _companion_ of _a_ lifetime.

 

**_03\. Rain_ **

 

It's raining. The sky has been constantly spewing rain for five days. Five days, twelve hours and less than ten minutes, to be exact. And there’s nothing that irritates Sherlock more than rain in Sussex. He cannot get out. He cannot take care of his bees as he would like, he cannot walk on the beach in the morning (barefoot and with his pants rolled up to mid-calf), he can not...

"We can play cards" John suggests, lowering the newspaper.

"Boring," Sherlock replies, slightly arching an eyebrow. His face is glued to the glass of a window in the living room and his breath draws funny patterns against the cool surface.

"Then, how ‘bout Cluedo?"

"On a boring scale of one to ten, it’s twenty-two!"

"I would accept your own fucking rules."

"It would be boring anyway, because you would drag me out your usual sermon, after I’ll win."

"You do not ever change, huh? Not in a thousand years!"

John's eyes slip to the news page again. Sherlock smiles.

"If you change, you wouldn’t like me anymore ..."

And the good ol’ doctor smiles too.

 

**_04\. Remember_ **

 

John has a box. He always had. He called his _hurt locker_. He never wanted Sherlock to open it. Nor when they were roommates, or when they have ceased to be like that. Nor when they became roommates again.

Sherlock has always loved to peek in his wardrobe, his drawers, arranging John’s clothes to suit his own personal taste. But he never opened the hurt locker. He respect it.

‘Cause John’s pain was also his pain.

After all, he never really needed to open it, because he already knew what was inside. The Afghanistan dog tags, old pictures of him and Harry... For sure, even a few photographs and newspaper clippings of their memorable adventures.

Sherlock’s lips touches slightly the edge of the cup, and then he blows a little. He wonders if even their love has been locked into that locker..

 

**_05\. Red_ **

 

The noise caused by the tomato sauce can shattering on the floor is ... irritating. This is how the former detective defines it. Now he will have to bend down, or John will have, when the simple flexion of a knee has become a problem for they both...

"John?"

The doctor is still standing in the middle of the kitchen, one hand resting on the nearest chair and the other trembling.

"It's all right. Wiping is boring but it is not ..."

"It is red" John interrupts him, staring into nowhere. Or in too bitter memories that had knocked on his heart door without being invited. Sherlock frowns, not immediately understanding what’s going on. "It's red, all red ... Like that day at Bart’s..." the doctor murmurs.

"Red, like that day ..."

_Red._

Red blood everywhere, that smears his hands, his hair ... His heart...

"You were on the sidewalk ... And you weren’t really you anymore..."

The voice of the old doctor is just a rattle coming out of his mouth, a gasp of pain too full of life to allow the former detective to find the right words to offer any sort of relief.

He can only do just one thing: getting close to John and hugging him awkwardly.

John’s tears that moisten his skin are hot, salty. They taste like  home.

 

**_06\. Thorn_ **

 

A bee who did not love her life quite much has had the ardor of stinging Sherlock. And she paid dearly for such ardor.

"You should get rid of them," John says, his eyes intently on the bites he’s disinfecting. "Of those bees, I mean."

Today, the hands of the old doctor do not tremble, and Sherlock cannot help but be grateful.

"I cannot. Those bees are my whole life," the former detective mutters, biting his lower lip. Sherlock does not like when people touch him. But John is not just “people”. And so he lets the doctor touching him.

"I thought that investigations were your life ..." An amused smile escapes from the lips of the good doctor. Sherlock does not like to be teased by John: he adores it. But, it is one of the many things he’s not going to tell John.

"The investigations were my life as a professional. Bees are my life in retirement."

A quick movement of the hand and the dirty gauze ends up in the trash.

"And where exactly are you going to put me? In the middle?"

Sherlock thinks John's blue eyes are still beautiful as the most beautiful of all nights they spent on the streets of London. Maybe just a little more subdued, but equally as beautiful as before.

"You are all these things and much more ..."

The hand of the former detective slips over the back of John’s left hand, which is leaning on his knee. "Because you will be with me in this life and the other."

Now, hands of the two of them are shaking.

 

**_07\. Mermaid_ **

 

"I wanted to be a pirate ..."

"Yeah, when you were a child. Your brother has made haste to tell me."

It's hot today. It has finally stopped raining and Sussex is going to have some heat. John’s lying on the hammock on the veranda, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Sherlock is sitting in the wicker table, busy with a loner.

"Not only as a child, even later. Vic and I had the time of our lives."

He hesitates.

"Even his dog. But I enjoyed it less when his dog was around."

The former detective’s hand trembles as soon as he uncovers the last two cards and is happy that at this time he’s turning his back to the good old doctor.

"I played the pirate, Vic was the mermaid" he reveals, before taking a sip of water.

"The siren… The newt, you mean..."

"I mean just what I said: the siren."

Sherlock's hand still trembles as he attempts to put the empty glass away, but a tremor of his arm prevents him to find the table and it falls to the ground, crashing into three pieces.

John clings to the edge of the hammock and gets to his feet, cursing himself for not having the agility of a time.

"Sherlock, damn it, are you hurt?" he asks, kneeling at his friend’s feet, starting to collect chips.

"Damn it" the former detective mutters, covering his mouth with a hand.

Sherlock hates to feel old. He hates his thinning gray hair that have replaced the gorgeous ebony curls that he once had. He hates the tremor in the hands. But, most of all, he hates to know that, one day or the other, even his brilliant brain will go into retirement.

"It's okay, I'm here," John says, with so much sweetness in his voice.

"No, it’s not okay" Sherlock growls, with a strange light in his eyes, "it's not okay that I depend on you!"

Now the doctor's face is a mask of sadness. "There was a time when I thought I was born just for this. Taking care of you" he says, pulling to his feet, a visible anger depicted on his tired face.

"And when did you exactly stop to think that? It was when you have decided to get married, maybe?"

Sherlock wants to hurt John, because he needs it. He needs anger and pain to make sure that he’s still alive. That both of them are.

"No, when you betray us. When you left me alone for three damn years."

John turns his back to Sherlock and opens the door into the living room.  

"I prepare dinner. Stew" it’s all he says.

 

**_08 Grave_ **

 

John remembers them all, the times he went on a visit to Sherlock’s tomb. Sherlock’s empty tomb.

It's a round number, a number he likes, despite everything. And now he draws it on the sand, using a small twig he found on the beach.

Then the good old doctor smiles, before deleting that number with his hands. He wonders if Sherlock really want to be buried there, one day. He has not yet found the courage to ask him.

Above all, he has not yet found the courage to tell him that his greatest desire is to rest beside him, when it will be all over.

 

**_09 Reflection_ **

 

Sherlock is walking barefoot on the shore, pants rolled up right below the knees. The waves visit him from time to time, burying his feet to the ankles.

His hands are clasped behind his back, when he stops walking. A slight breeze ruffles his hair tenderly, now less rebellious than when he was young.

Then his gaze falls to the frothy surface of the water, and what Sherlock sees, Sherlock does not like.

It's his face, aged by time and the adventures that have animated his heart and his soul in a lifetime.

Sherlock hates a myriad of things and one of these is his aged face, which reminds him of so many - _too_ many - things.

But then something happens. The reflex changes. Now there are two faces, his and John’s one. Two elderly faces, which together make a whole life.

The old doctor’s cool hand touches gently the former detective’s shaky one.

"Let’s get home, it’s getting colder..." John says.

And Sherlock squeezes his hand.

 

**_10 Flower and veil_ **

 

John still remembers their scent. The flowers that made Mary’s bouquet up. He does not remember their names, just their perfume. Every time he smells it in some store, supermarket or in a meadow, his leg shakes.

The good doctor's leg trembles even when he lays his eyes on something that vaguely resembles a white veil or tulle.

Mary smelled good.

Mary was smart.

Mary was ironic.

Mary was beautiful.

Mary had many adjectives.

And then there was Sherlock.

Sherlock is all the things Mary was, all these adjectives. But with the addition of the suffix "- _est"._

 

**_11 Silence_ **

 

Sherlock and John have never had a great need to talk. Not with their mouths, at least. It’s their eyes to speak on their behalf.

Now John is washing dishes - two plates, cutlery, two glasses, a pot, a lid. The French window to the veranda is open and, occasionally, a slight breeze rising from the sea peeps into the room.

Sherlock, however, is standing in front of the window on the opposite side of the room. A moment of indecision, then he raises his hands to his favorite instrument, in a sort of caring hug.

Soon after, Paganini's keeping them company.

John smiles, while he's mopping the sink up with a cloth. He feels that someone has rewound the clock, pretending both of them were still young, in their beloved flat in Baker Street.

And it is perfect.

 

**_12 Touch_ **

 

John's skin is still soft, despite his age and everything - the tension, the pain, the anger, the adrenaline - he knew in a lifetime.

For years, Sherlock wondered what could have been touching his skin with his own fingers. Or with his own breath. At first, it was just curiosity. Then, it became desire. Like a forbidden fruit, inaccessible. Finally, it became everyday life.

Soft, fresh, sweet. John's skin is really so, exactly as Sherlock had imagined for so many years, in a room not so modest of his Mind Palace.

It is really so, now that he is caressing John’s belly, hips, and chest with his fingertips.

Goosebumps shake the body of both of them. Then, Sherlock’s eyes get themselves lost away, in distant memories.

"What is it?" John asks, losing his way in those pale eyes.

"I wondered how many times she has seen you like this."

Those pale eyes are full of regrets, now.

John leans forward and his thin chapped lips give a gentle caress to those of the former detective. They feel like salt, Sherlock thinks.

"She never, ever saw me as you've always seen me," John murmurs.

 

 

**_13 Alone_ **

 

John is afraid of being alone. That’s what he thinks now, as, from the porch, he’s observing Sherlock taking care of his little bees, in that funny yellow suit of his.

He is afraid because he knows that being alone is a certainty. Either if he will be the first to go, leaving the companion of his lifetime alone till his time comes, or if it will the former detective departing first.

Then, the good old doctor thinks that they could do it together, one of these days. Simultaneously put an end to their lives. In order not to confine the other to solitude. After all, how in the hell is one supposed to continue living if half of himself is gone?.

John shakes his head weakly, and gets back into the house, his leg that begins hurting madly.

 

**_14 Scar_ **

 

Sherlock’s finger is on John’s wound. His caresses taste its consistency, in order to wash years of suffering away. In order to love it.

Now, the lips of the former detective are touching the translucent and violated skin. John shivers under Sherlock’s touch, and, even if he does not say a word, Sherlock knows that his scar makes him feel "dirty", inadequate.

"You shouldn’t feel like that," the former detective whispers, blowing on the offended skin.

Another shiver.

"Because you are the most appropriate person in this world."

A tear streams down John’s face, ultimately ending up on Sherlock’s eyelashes.

"Want to see my scars? They're all in here," Sherlock reveals, touching the center of his chest with his punch. And then John clasps his thin and fragile body in his own arms, leaving a gentle kiss on those hair, which once had the same color of the night.

"I think that I am the one to blame for some of those scars..." John says.

Another tear. Sherlock finds shelter on John’s shoulder. And they both think that all the scars in this world are not so important, if their souls have finally met again.

 

**_15 Kiss_ **

 

It is early morning. Dawn has just started to brush the Sussex sky with the bright colors of the new day. Waves are crashing up on the rocks, almost as if the sea has not yet aroused at all.

It is early morning when John just gets up on his toes, barefoot and soaked in the sand still wet, and approaches his thin lips to Sherlock’s ones.

It is a shy kiss, almost reverential. It tastes like saliva, like salt. And like groans and throbbing. It must be a really nice kiss, because the former detective claims another one.

Three, five, ten kisses, with their tongues that playing together.

"Why haven’t we done this before?" Sherlock asks.

A sigh.

"I suppose because we are two idiots" is John’s answer.

A laugh, which involves both. A fresh, genuine laugh.

Like the ones they were used to have when they were young.

 

**_16 Grey / Silver_ **

 

The contact with the cool sheet against his warm skin is nice, Sherlock thinks. John’s lying next to him, naked.

The old doctor's hands are immersed in the former detective’s gray hair, caressing it. Possessing it. Sherlock's eyes, instead, are getting lost in his companion’s blue ones.

"There is a whole life, in all this gray. Isn’t it?" John whispers, stroking the other’s skin with his own fingertips. Sherlock moans in pleasure.

"It was a wonderful life, indeed, especially the years we spent together. "

John smiles: the moments of romance his best friend – his companion of a lifetime, his love, his everything – gives him are so damnly rare...

"What will happen to us ... when it's all _over?"_

Sherlock is surprised that John does not want to use the word "death." He raises an eyebrow and reflects.

"I think there will be a place, a _limbo,_ in which our souls will meet again to stay together, dancing in eternity," he whispers.

Sherlock Holmes is not a believer, he never has been. He simply refuses to believe that their souls are condemned to part company. Again.

"I love you," John says.

"I love you" Sherlock whispers.

And then they both close their eyes, allowing the oblivion to show a glimpse of that limbo to the old detective and his loyal blogger. _Perhaps in some humble corner of such a Valhalla, Sherlock and his Watson may for a time find a place_ [1].

And it will be beautiful.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd like to apologize for any typos and grammar errors you may find in this fic: English is not my mother language.  
> [1] From the praface to The CaseBook.


End file.
